Masked Prince (Fated Royals 2)

The one threat to my power wasn’t anywhere to be seen. Patara and her own entourage had made themselves very fucking scarce. Word had it that she’d been so scared when I tried to get through her door that she pissed herself. Not bad for five minutes’ work.

My father’s valet came up behind him, holding a red velvet pillow. On it sat the crown. It was a mix of old and new, rough and fine, iron, gold and diamonds. My father turned away so his valet could place it on his head, for the last time. I turned away as well, as my own servant adjusted my neckpiece and ceremonial armor.

Some kings were crowned in silks and pearls, but I wasn’t fucking one of them. As my royal color, I’d chosen a green so dark it was almost black, because I was, and would always be, deep in grief for Iris. And I always wanted to honor that. And honor her memory. I would live as a grieving warrior king. Forever and fucking ever.

I handed my mask to my servant and he fastened it on my face. So much goddamned pomp and circumstance. But I understood it. Bread and circuses worked for the Romans and it worked for the people of Aramoor too. They liked a show, they liked high drama.

But more than that, the act of unmasking me in front of them, on my coronation day, was to legitimize me as a ruler. As the mask went on, I felt like I had so many times—like a horse in blinders. It narrowed my world and heightened my senses. Somehow, whenever I wore it, I was able to cut through whatever shit was around me and notice what might be too soft or subtle for others to notice.

Like now, behind me, there was a commotion in the hallway, faint but definite. I glanced at my father, but he hadn’t noticed. I listened, trying to piece together what I might be hearing.

Whatever it was, it didn’t sound violent. No clank of swords, no raised voices. Nobody else in the room seemed concerned. Probably just more of my father’s entourage then, come to join the ceremony. I fucking hoped so, anyway. Because I was too tired and in too much pain to deal with a fucking coup.

The mood in the room shifted as the servants stepped back. Preparations done; time for the big fucking moment. My father straightened his shoulders, looking way healthier and stronger than he did in his night clothes.

Outside, on the terrace, the sound of drums began, low and ominous, and the chatter of the crowd quietened to a dull murmur. My father gripped me by the bicep, weak but still confident.

“Ready?”

I nodded. “Ready.”

The doors to the terrace swung open and the crowd went completely silent. There were thousands gathered. People spilled from every alleyway and balcony surrounding the coronation square. The drums continued on, increasing in speed and intensity as we stepped out into the open air.

My father stepped forward in front of me. The people cheered when he opened his arms and bowed to them. They fucking loved him, always had. In his lifetime there had been no war, only peace, no famine, only prosperity.

“My lords and ladies, my men and women, my people. We are here today for a momentous event. For the first time in the history of our kingdom, a living king will crown his successor. I present to you, my natural son, Prince Randal.”

My father stepped aside, and I took my place next to him. I bowed slightly, and the people went fucking wild. The noise was deafening. But even still I was aware of something happening behind me. I knew now wasn’t the time to turn around and see what the fuck was up, but I kept part of my focus behind me just to be safe.

My father nudged me to get on with the next step. This was the part I fucking dreaded. This was what I had dreaded for my entire fucking life. It was time for me to show my face to the people I would rule. The ultimate goddamned battle wound, my face, for everybody to see.

I tipped my neck side to side, stretching out my tense muscles. Then I reached behind my head and unfastened the leather strap. And finally, placing my hand to the front of the mask, I removed it from my face.

Silence. Fucking silence. Exactly as I had always feared. I felt sick to my goddamned stomach. I don’t know how long it was dead quiet. A minute? An hour? But slowly, I heard murmurs spread across the crowd. And the murmurs changed to conversations. And the conversations changed to shouts.

But to my absolute fucking astonishment, the crowd seemed neither horrified nor scared. Instead they seemed relieved. Mixed up with their relief was the warm sound of recognition. It was exactly, fucking exactly, like what had happened with the old man I’d saved from being mugged.